The Cholmondely-Smythe Year

“Captain’s log, stardate 926323.23723. What a turn up for the jolly old books! Following a request from the Klingon Empire, the Psycho has been despatched to Qo’nos to act as independent observer in the matter of succession to the leadership of the Klingon Rekhtag Sauce Council. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it, but that hardly matters, what? As it turns out, a certain Klingon Liaison Officer of our acquaintance has more than a passing familiarity with the Council and its workings.”

It was evening on board the Psycho. Fred’s bar was packed to the rafters with crewmembers taking advantage of their downtime. Right at that moment several of the junior officers were stood up on the raised stage area, singing particularly tuneless karaoke.

Over at a table in the corner, Lieutenant-Commanders Damerell and Wall were sitting with Colonel Klumpf, who was telling them about his family history.

“In years gone by, my family was a respected and powerful member of the Rekhtag Sauce Council,” he said, gulping back some more blood wine.

“The what?” Wall interrupted.

“You must understand, rekhtag sauce is one of the mainstays of the Klingon diet. Many years ago the group of families with the knowledge of the highly secret recipe for the one true sauce banded together to form the Rekhtag Sauce Council. Together they formed a powerful faction within the Empire, with the families always moving and acting as one, under the control of the current leader of the Council.”

“Right.”

“The families are wealthy, and many of the larger ones have their own security forces – including warships,” Klumpf went on. “My father, Tog’a, was the head of the family. When I was a boy he was accused of conspiring against the council with pirates and smugglers, in an attempt to undercut the Rekhtag sauce monopoly. My family was expelled from the Council in dishonour, and my father died a broken man.”

Wall and Damerell exchanged looks. This was all getting a bit too serious for their liking. “Um. Sorry to hear that,” Damerell said, helplessly.

“Last year I uncovered evidence that it was the powerful House of Durex who actually were conspiring with the pirates,” Klumpf said fiercely. “Unfortunately K’Vin, the Head of the House of Durex, was also the Leader of the Council. The Durex family was too powerful and any confrontation would have led to a rift in the Council that inevitably would become a full-blown conflict, with the likelihood of eventually engulfing the entire Klingon empire. I convinced myself to accept the dishonour for the good of my people.”

“Blimey, you lot really take your rekhtag sauce seriously, don’t you?” Wall commented.

“It is the lifeblood upon which the Empire is built!” Klumpf said proudly.

“So, your whole family is taking the blame for something you didn’t do?” Damerell asked. “That’s not fair!”

“Indeed it is not,” Klumpf said. “But sometimes we must accept sacrifices for the greater good. And anyway, the House of Vogue currently only consists of myself and my younger brother, Gurn.”

“Bollocks,” Wall told him. “Look out for number one, that’s my motto. You should reclaim your family’s honour, mate. Don’t just take it lying down!”

Klumpf’s eyes gleamed. “The House of Durex is weaker now than ever,” he mused. “The death of K’vin has left his sisters Lurcher and Bernadette theoretically in control of the House, with no direct heir. A new leader of the Council from a different House, Gadroon, is to be installed. There would likely never be a better time to strike!”

Wall raised his glass. “To, er, what’s the word? I dunno, getting what’s rightfully yours.”

The three of them clinked their glasses together as Klumpf said, “To justice.”

 

“Do you have any idea why Starfleet chose us for this assignment?” the Counsellor asked, standing next to the command chair on the Bridge. Cholmondely-Smythe looked over at her.

“Not a clue,” he admitted. “But at least it isn’t cataloging more gaseous anomolies!”

“Hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced as she wandered back to a random station off to one side and took a seat.

“Captain,” Mr. Bleep said then, “there is a Klingon bird-of-prey approaching. We are being hailed.”

“On screen.”

The viewscreen changed from the moving starfield to that of a scowling Klingon in a typically darkened and smoky bridge.

“Greetings, Captain,” the Klingon said. “I am Councillor Gadroon of the Rekhtag Sauce Council, commanding the IKS Borscht.”

“Councillor Gadroon,” Cholmondely-Smythe said pleasantly. “One’s name is Hubert Cholmondely-Smythe. This is a surprise. We are just on our way to see you. What can we do for you?”

“We must act quickly, Captain, to prevent a civil war from engulfing the Klingon Empire!”

 

“So, Councillor, what the deuce is going on?”

Gadroon had been beamed aboard the Psycho and they were meeting in Cholmondely-Smythe’s office, the converted ship’s cinema. While the ready room was a useful place to escape from the hustle and bustle of the Bridge, this office where where he got most of his really important work done. And also the sofa was perfect for a nap – the one in the ready room was too short and uncomfortable.

“I don’t know how much you know about the Rekhtag Sauce Council,” Gadroon said. “But you’re supposed to be the Federation’s impartial witness to my official confirmation as the Leader of the Council after my accession last year.”

“Indeed. I have read my briefing pack, I can assure you,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, glossing over the fact that he had skimmed the pack in the minutes before Gadroon’s arrival on board.

“It’s not that simple, though,” Gadroon went on. “The House of Durex has led the Council for decades and they are not taking kindly to the power being handed off to a different house. By the end of his life, K’Vin of the House of Durex was a fat, slovenly, in-bred, lazy, revolting slug. I was voted to take his place, but his sisters, Lurcher and Bernadette, have arranged a challenge to my claim. I have no idea how – women are not permitted to serve on the Council. But they have been free with money and threats and now the balance is precarious – if it was put to another vote now, there is every chance that I would lose.”

“That does sound like a frightful pickle,” Cholmondely-Smythe acknowledged. “But what do you want me to do about it?”

“Your role as independent witness places you in a unique position,” Gadroon told him. “You can influence the Council without appearing to serve any agenda.”

“My dear boy,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, demonstrating a horrifying lack of common sense with his choice of words, “I cannot serve any agenda. If evidence is presented and my opinion is asked, I will have to give my opinion – whichever way it so falls.”

Gadroon frowned but nodded. “Either way,” he said. “I fear it may not be enough to avoid a war.”

 

Under orders from Cholmondely-Smythe, Klumpf arrived at the captain’s office to escort Gadroon to the transporter room. The Councillor looked the Colonel up and down, taking in his rank and the House symbol on his sash.

“Klumpf, son of Tog’a of the House of Vogue,” Gadroon said with a curl of his lip.

Klumpf bit his tongue and nodded shortly. “Councillor. If you would follow me.” The two of them walked in silence towards the transporter room for a minute, before Klumpf plucked up the courage to speak.

“If I may, Councillor,” he said. “I would ask you for your assistance in clearing my family’s name. We are not traitors. I accepted the situation in the past to protect the Council and the Empire but now I feel this has gone on long enough.”

Gadroon looked at him sceptically. “How has this happened?” he asked.

“It was not my father who was conspiring against the Council but K’Vin of the House of Durex himself. The Durex family was so powerful that I was convinced that if I revealed the truth it would have split the Empire.

Gadroon’s eyes narrowed. “All I have so far are the words of a known traitor. What proof do you have?”

“There are records, with a full chain of provenance, detailing meetings and exchanged between K’Vin and the pirates,” Klumpf informed him. “My father was gathering the evidence when he died.”

Gadroon stopped and Klumpf turned, facing him. “Tell me, Colonel, what would you have me do?”

“Use the evidence to clear my name and render the House of Durex into disgrace, as was done to my family,” Klumpf said definitely. His fierce, hopeful look died a little as he took in the expression on Gadroon’s face.

“Would that I could,” Gadroon said with very real regret, “but Durex is still powerful, with many allies on the Council. Bringing this to their attention would be no guarantee of absolution for your family. In fact, it is more likely to incite war. I’m sorry, Klumpf, but I cannot help you. You accepted the dishonour for the good of the Empire, and now you must live with that decision as a Klingon.”

“As you say, Councillor,” Klumpf said through gritted teeth. The remainder of their walk was silent, with Gadroon offering a forearm-clasp as a gesture of respect before he mounted the platform and was beamed away.

Klumpf snarled at the transporter operator and stomped away, heading for the small holodeck that had been added as part of the refit, converted from existing crew quarters. Once there he angrily called up a programme for target practice and headed in.

 

“Computer, increase difficulty to level fourteen,” he ordered, some time later.

“Acknowledged,” the computer replied, beeping.

Just as he was about to start shooting the door appeared and opened, revealing Counsellor Hill. She walked in and looked around with interest. “Hello Klumpf,” she said cheerfully. “A little birdie told me you had been in here for a while. Thought I might come and see if you wanted to talk.”

“Talking is for fishwives and diplomats,” he growled.

She smiled easily. “Alright,” she said. “How about we just do some target practice. “Computer, give me a phaser.” A holographic phaser to match the one Klumpf was holding appeared on a table nearby and she picked it up. “Shall we?” she said sweetly, gesturing with the phaser.

Klumpf nodded. “Computer, begin simulation.”

“Why so serious?” the Counsellor asked after a minute, during which Klumpf had missed one target. The Counsellor had yet to miss at all.

“I am angry at my inability to change my family’s position. As the oldest I am the de facto head, but here on this Federation ship my choices are limited.”

“You have siblings?” she asked, hitting yet another target dead centre.

“A younger brother, Gurn,” Klumpf confirmed, missing his target and scowling. “He is the commander of a vessel in the Rekhtag Sauce Council’s Defence Force.”

“The rekhtag sauce industry has its own battleships?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Klumpf said with a shrug. “Rekhtag sauce and the secret to its manufacture is such an important commodity that it must be protected.” He hit two targets in quick succession and grinned in triumph.

Counsellor Hill blinked. “Fair enough,” she said. She thought about it, absently hitting a few more targets as she did so. “Maybe you need to see things from the Klingon side of things for a while,” she suggested. “You’ve been on this ship for a while. It might help to get a feeling for how things really are on the ground, as it were.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Klumpf nodded. “Your suggestion is sound, Counsellor. Thank you for your assistance.”

“No problemo,” she said happily. “Thank you for the target practice!”

Klumpf looked at the score, which the computer was displaying on one black wall. The Counsellor’s score was considerably higher than his. He looked down at her, over a foot in height difference. She smiled disarmingly at him.

“You are welcome,” he said, faintly.

 

“Captain’s log, supplemental. My Klingon Liaison Officer has left the ship for a time in order to reconnect with his family. I don’t fully understand all the details but it certainly seemed important, and Counsellor Hill backed him up. I must say it is a rather inconvenient time, given our current mission, but there you are.”

Having been dropped off at a border station, Klumpf sent out a message to his brother Gurn, asking for his current location. When the message came back that he wasn’t far away, Klumpf asked if his brother would be willing to come and pick him up for a reunion, of sorts.

Their relationship had been somewhat strained ever since their father’s death. Gurn had always been the black sheep of the family, refusing to go into the family business but choosing instead to enter the military, with no Council affiliations. Since their family honour had gone down the toilet Gurn had been forced to give up his military commission and take a position leading a squadron of the Council’s security force – a consolation prize, as far as he was concerned.

Gurn laid the blame for all of that squarely on their father’s shoulders, but in his absence Gurn had spent much of his life being angry with Klumpf for not being angry with Tog’a. Things had mellowed somewhat recently, with Klumpf’s discovery of the truth but they were still not close.

When Gurn’s ship, the bird-of-prey Heq’tiq, docked at the station, Klumpf was there waiting to greet his brother.

“Brother,” Klumpf greeted Gurn as he stepped through the airlock. “It is good to see you again.”

“If you say so, brother,” Gurn replied. He was even bigger than his older brother, taller and wider. There was a similarity to their brow ridges that marked them as family.

Klumpf grunted, in turns amused and disappointed with his brother’s reaction. “We should have a drink,” he said, gesturing for Gurn to lead the way.

The two of them headed for the station’s bar, where they ordered blood wines and sat at a table in a corner, at Klumpf’s behest. They drank deeply from their cups and looked at each other. “Why did you wish to see me, Klumpf?” Gurn asked. “I thought you were comfortably ensconced in your nest with the cowardly petaQs of the Federation.”

“Why must you always try to incite me to violence?” Klumpf asked in a tired voice. When Gurn gave no response but to grunt and take another drink, Klumpf sighed and decided to dive right in. “I came to tell you. I spoke to Gadroon about finally clearing our family’s name,” he said.

“And?” Gurn asked eagerly, leaning forward.

Klumpf shook his head. “He has refused, for the good of the Empire, he says.”

Gurn snarled and slammed his fist down on the table, drawing the attention of several of the other patrons of the seedy bar. “Gadroon is a filthy coward and a maggot.” He scowled furiously down at his empty cup. “If the Durex family doesn’t kill him, I think perhaps I will,” he ground out.

Klumpf stared at him, aghast. “What do you think that would accomplish?” he asked. “If Gadroon, head of a family who in the past has had close ties to ours, is unwilling to clear our family name, why would anyone else?”

“Perhaps if we were in control of the Council,” Gurn began, but Klumpf’s disdainful laugh cut him off.

“We are no longer members of the Council,” Klumpf said. “If we tried to seize control the entire Council would band against us and our dishonour would be increased ten-fold. Our jobs, our lives, all of it would become forfeit.”

“I have the support of four of the Council’s security squadrons,” Gurn told him bluntly. “If we swept the old Council away and put a new one in its place, one with us at the head, we could wipe away our dishonour entirely. The Chancellor would have no choice but to accept us, as we would control the only source of rekhtag sauce in the Empire.”

“This is madness,” Klumpf said forcefully. “Gadroon is the elected successor for the Council leadership. No matter our feelings, he is the man the Council will now follow.”

“So you will follow a man who refuses to clear our family’s name?” Gurn growled.

“You cannot regain honour by acting dishonourably,” Klumpf told him. “That is something I have learned from my time aboard the Psycho. For all that you may look down on them,” he added as Gurn’s lip curled in distaste, “there are warriors on board that ship who have faced things you can only begin to imagine. And besides, I am older. I am the Head of the House of Vogue. You must listen to me.”

“So what do you suggest?” Gurn asked.

Klumpf smiled grimly. “We give Gadroon all the support we can muster,” he said, holding up his hand to forestall Gurn’s protest, “but not yet. We wait until Gadroon is backed into a corner by his enemies. Then we off him our support, and the price is the restoration of our family’s name and honour.”

They sat in silence. Klumpf waved at the bartender, who brought them over another round of bloodwine. Gurn stared down at the table top before looking up at Klumpf with something closer to respect in his eyes. “It is a good plan,” he admitted. “But I don’t know whether the other squadron commanders will agree to it.”

“You will have to convince them,” Klumpf said.

“I will do my best.”

 

The Psycho was now in orbit around Qo’nos. Captain Cholmondely-Smythe had beamed down to the building that housed the large, ornate chamber where the Rekhtag Sauce Council met. The room was decked out with lit braziers and bunting, in celebration of the forthcoming Succession of Gadroon to the Council Leadership.

The Heads of each of the Council families, along with their advisors and over invitees, were gathered around a dais in the centre of the room. Cholmondely-Smythe stood off to one side, uncomfortable in his dress uniform, with Counsellor Hill by his side as his invited guest. He had chosen her as the lesser of all evils, after giving all of his senior crew some thought.

Since the death of K’Vin, Council business had been run by his deputy, A’Thur of the House of P’nDrag’n. Now he stood up on the dais, arms outstretched, declaiming in a loud, stentorian voice. “According to the wishes of the Council as voted for on the meeting on the forty-third day of Volstag, I hereby appoint-”

“Wait!”

A voice echoed across the hall, interrupting A’Thur in full flow. He stopped, glaring out at the assembly of Klingons.

“Who dares interrupt the Rite of Succession?” he boomed.

Two Klingon women in heavy armour stomped their way to the front of the dais, taking up positions bracketing the steps. One woman was tall, almost willowy, while the other was short and dumpy.

“We do,” the short one said around a mouthful of poorly cared-for teeth. “Lurcher and Bernadette of the House of Durex.”

“We wish to speak to the Council on behalf of the House of Durex,” the tall one said.

“And what would you say?” A’Thur asked, ignoring the protests of Gadroon from off to one side. Cholmondely-Smythe shifted uncomfortably, remembering Gadroon’s words to him on the Psycho about civil war.

“We have discovered that K’Vin had a son. May I present Feral, of the House of Durex!” Lurcher, the taller one, said. The doors opened and a young Klingon man, barely more than a boy, entered the room. His armour didn’t fit him particularly well, indicating that it had been made for someone else. He trudged up to the dais and took his place between his aunts, a grumpy, teenage expression on his face.

“This is outrageous!” Gadroon exclaimed from the side, shoving his way forward to confront the three members of the House of Durex. At the same time A’Thur descended the steps of the dais at the same time, bringing them all together. “This is an obvious ruse to try and regain control of the Council.”

“I can assure you, we are willing to submit Feral’s DNA for analysis to prove his connection to our dear, departed brother,” Bernadette said, smirking at Gadroon.

“Yeah, chill out grandad,” Feral grumbled.

“Even if he really is K’Vin’s son,” Gadroon said, ignoring Feral, “that does not mean he is a candidate for the Leadership of the Council – his illegitimacy casts all of that in shadow.”

A’Thur nodded thoughtfully. “That would be a matter for an Arbiter to decide,” he said. He looked between them, making his decision. “We must appoint an Arbiter. They must be neutral, and all parties must agree to it.”

“I nominate R’Gar of the House of Murtagh,” Lurcher said.

“Vetoed,” Gadroon said immediately. “The House of Murtagh are well-known to be mere flunkies to the House of Durex. I nominate… Hubert Cholmondely-Smythe of Starfleet.”

All eyes turned to Captain Cholmondely-Smythe, who looked startled like a deer in headlights. “Oh, I say, I mean, I couldn’t possibly…” he demurred, but he was overridden.

“An excellent suggestion,” A’Thur agreed. “The Federation have no interest in this matter so they are completely neutral. What say the House of Durex?”

The sisters exchanged glances, obviously not particularly pleased but unable to speak out for fear of seeming willing to follow the Council’s rules.

“Very well,” Bernadette said finally. “We accept Captain Cholmondely-Smythe as Arbiter in this matter.”

A’Thur turned to the stunned captain. “The decision lies with you, Arbiter,” he said. “You must decide whether Feral has a legitimate claim to the Leadership, and if so, whether it should be given to him or Gadroon.”

Cholmondely-Smythe looked a little faint. “May I have some time to consider the options?” he asked.

“Very well,” A’Thur said. “The Council will reconvene in two days to hear your verdict. This meeting is adjourned.”

As talking and shouting erupted from all around the chamber, Cholmondely-Smythe stood still, stunned by the turn of events. Hill tried to get his attention but got no response and, when she saw both Gadroon and the Durex sisters approaching, tapped her comm badge.

“Hill to Psycho,” she said. “Two to beam up.”

 

On the Klingon homeworld, the sisters Lurcher and Bernadette were in the chambers assigned to the House of Durex in the Council Complex, talking to a green-skinned Orion man with a ponytail breaking the smoothness of his bald head.

“What do you think his chances are?” the Orion asked.

Bernadette pursed her lips. “It is hard to say, Cremini,” she replied. “Cholmondely-Smythe is a Starfleet officer, and human,” she said, the latter sounding far more like a curse than the former. “He will be bound by duty and cowardice in equal measure.”

“Why don’t we just kill him,” Feral said from where he was slumped on a sofa nearby, the controller for a videogame in his hands. On the screen, he was busy killing and maiming Borg drones.

He yelped as Lurcher reached across and slapped him hard on the back of the head.

“Foolish child,” she snapped. “We don’t want the Federation as our enemy!”

“Well,” a voice purred from the shadows, “not yet at any rate.”

They all turned to look, except Feral who yelled out in victory as his character annihilated another group of drones. Stella stepped forward, once again dressed in skimpy clothing that shimmered as she walked, hips swaying enticingly. She approached Cremini and put a hand teasingly on his muscular arm. “First we destabilise the Klingons,” she said with a nasty smile. “Then we deal with the Federation – and the reet mithersome crew of the Psycho.”

 

Back in his quarters on board the Psycho, Klumpf was sitting and waiting. When the communication screen beeped at him he leaped across the room to switch it on. Gurn’s face appeared.

“Brother,” Klumpf said.

“Brother,” Gurn said with a tilt of his head. “I have spoken to the squadron commanders. Three of them are with us. The fourth is not. I am fairly certain that Durex has seven squadrons on their said. Most of the security forces are undecided. They could go either way.”

Klumpf nodded. “That is better than expected,” he said. “With four of the Council’s security squadrons on our side, we can sway the known quantities in Gadroon’s favour – provided he agrees to our terms.”

“I will be returning to the homeworld soon,” Gurn said. “We’ll meet then.”

He signed off. Klumpf smiled to himself in satisfaction.

 

Cholmondely-Smythe straightened his uniform tunic and reached up to press the door chime, announcing his arrival. A loud, discordant crash of sound filled the air. To be fair, it was exactly what he expected from a Klingon doorbell.

The message from the House of Durex he had received a little while before had been somewhat surprising. However, he mustn’t show favourites so he had graciously accepted their invite for a spot of afternoon tiffin. Of course, that wasn’t quite how they had phrased it but he knew enough to read between the lines.

The door opened and Bernadette greeted him. “Captain. Please, come in.”

He followed her into the quarters, where there were a couple of not-particularly comfortable sofas and a chair that looked more like a torture device. The sofas were both occupied, so Cholmondely-Smythe had no choice but to perch awkwardly on the edge of the rigid, spiky chair.

Lurcher smiled at him, showing her teeth. Cholmondely-Smythe suppressed a shudder at the state of them. He was fairly certain she had more than one piece of food stuck between them.

“Would you like some tea, Captain,” she asked as pleasantly as she could. “We have lapsang souchong.”

“Splendid, yes, thank you ever so much,” he replied, taking the cup gingerly when she held it out. He sipped it and tried not to grimace. It simultaneously managed to taste burnt and over-stewed. Still, it was the thought that counted. He made himself drink some more and smile at them. “Now, what can i do for you ladies?” he asked.

“We were hoping we could convince you to rule in favour of our nephew tomorrow,” Bernadette said, bluntly.

“I see.” He set down his cup. “All I can say, my dears, is that I will do whatever follows Klingon law.” He looked at them sharply. “I must say,” he went on, “I hope you don’t think I can’t see what you are doing.”

“What could you possibly mean?” Lurcher wondered, not particularly convincingly.

“I mean, my good woman, that if I install Feral as Head of the Council, I have no doubt that he will arrange to have Gadroon killed and will put pressure on the Empire to dissolve the peace treaty with the Federation. If I opt for Gadroon, I am equally certain that I will be accused of not acting impartially but of serving Federation interests, and a bally civil war would break out.”

“You are not as stupid as you look,” Bernadette said grudgingly.

Cholmondely-Smythe simply looked smug and deliberately failed to mention that it was in fact the Counsellor who had pointed out the probabilities to him. “You have manipulated the situation like a… person who is exceptionally good at manipulating things,” he told them. “I must congratulate you. However, you must wait for noon tomorrow for my decision, just like everyone else.”

“Very well Captain,” Bernadette said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Thank you for the tea,” Cholmondely-Smythe responded with impeccable manners.

 

“What do I do Counsellor?” Cholmondely-Smythe asked desperately, standing in an antechamber the next day. They were once again back in their dress uniforms, waiting for the signal to enter the Council chamber.

“Either way, you’re pretty much screwed,” she said. “I’ve had a look at all the law surrounding this – to be honest, you have to choose Gadroon no matter what the DNA results say. Feral doesn’t actually have much of a leg to stand on. The position isn’t hereditary so the fact that his father held it means nothing.”

Cholmondely-Smythe sighed. “Well, dash it all,” he said.

Then a Klingon stuck his head around the door. “Follow me,” he growled.

They emerged into the large main hall and the Klingon led them to the middle of the dais in the Rekhtag Sauce Council Chamber. The gathered families of the Council all stood, waiting to hear his decision. To one side of him was Gadroon and his allies. To the other stood the three members of the House of Durex and their allies.

He swallowed hard, knowing that his decision now was going to have far-reaching effects. He had a suspicion that the Psycho had been assigned this mission because it was supposed to be a non-event – watch the Succession, applaud politely, be diplomatic and get on their way. Instead here he was, making decisions that could affect the entire Federation.

Clearing his throat, he started to speak. “Honoured-” he broke off as his voice cracked. Laughter rumbled around the hall as he swallowed and tried again. “Honoured members of the Council, I have studied the results of the genetic testing and the facts are indisputable. Feral is undoubtedly the son of K’Vin of the House of Durex.”

A ripple of satisfaction spread through the Durex side of the chamber, while grumbles of discontent ran through the other.

The Captain held up his hand. “However,” he went on, “I can find no evidence in Klingon law of an untried, untested youth being chosen in favour of a more experienced, older warrior. In fact, there are several specific mentions of the opposite of this being the correct course of action. Given that, I reaffirm the nomination of Gadroon to the position of Head of the Council.”

Pandemonium broke out in the hall, with angry shouting coming from the Durex contingent. A’Thur mounted the dais and, in amongst all the yelling he bellowed for calm. Silence fell.

“The Arbiter has spoken!” he exclaimed. “By law, Gadroon will now lead the Council, once the Rite of Succession has been completed.”

“This isn’t fair!” Feral snarled with a teenage whine in his voice, stepping forward. “Decisions such as this should not be made by a Human!” Backed by his aunts, he looked around the hall. “Does the Federation dictate our destiny, or do we? Follow me,” he said, trying to puff out his chest, “and I will show you honour!”

Cholmondely-Smythe watched in horror as the majority of the Council families moved to stand with the House of Durex, leaving Gadroon and his few allies outnumbered.

“All of you are ignoring Klingon law!” Gadroon shouted at them, A’Thur by his side looking worried. “You would cast centuries of tradition, the very foundation upon which this Council is built, into dust!” He glared out at them but although a few of them looked shifty and uncertain, none of them moved. “Then go,” he told them. “Your blood will provide the fertile soil in which the seeds of the future will grow!”

Led by the House of Durex, the renegade families stormed out of the Council chamber. Gadroon turned to Cholmondely-Smythe, taking in his ashen expression. “Fear not, Captain,” he said. “I fear this was inevitable.” He grinned a feral grin. “The Klingons are now at war with themselves, and it will spread beyond the Council like wildfire. Our victory will be glorious!”

Cholmondely-Smythe shook his head. “I wish I had your confidence, old bean.”

 

A short time later, Klumpf beamed over from the Psycho to Gadroon’s ship, the Borscht. A Klingon warrior escorted him from the transporter room to the Bridge. Klumpf looked around. He had almost forgotten how cramped it was on Klingon ships. Even though the Psycho was much smaller than the Borscht, it was built with wider corridors and felt much more spacious and airy.

Once on the Bridge, Klumpf approached the captain’s chair, where Gadroon was sitting and brooding.

“Councillor,” Klumpf greeted him, saluting.

“Colonel,” Gadroon said. “I’m busy. What can I do for you?”

“I am here to offer you my support in the upcoming fight,” Klumpf told him. “In return for my family’s honour being restored.”

Gadroon laughed in his face. “What use to me is one dishonoured Klingon?” he said scornfully.

Klumpf scowled at him. “I am not merely ‘one dishonoured Klingon’,” he snapped back. “I have four squadrons of the Council’s security forces at my command,” he said.

Gadroon gaped at him. “But… how?”

“My brother, Gurn, is the commander of one of the squadrons.”

“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Gadroon said.

“That’s because we don’t use our family name,” Klumpf said. “And you know why that is.”

Gadroon curled his lip. “Four squadrons is not enough,” he said eventually, ignoring Klumpf’s words. “We need the help of the Federation to maintain control.”

Klumpf sighed. “I have spoken to Captain Cholmondely-Smythe. The Federation will not intervene in a matter internal to the Klingon Empire.”

“You are bold,” Gadroon said disparagingly, “coming to me and demanding I return your family’s honour when you hide behind your uniform as soon the prospect of real fighting appears.”

“How dare you?!” Klumpf shouted, clenching his fists.

Their argument was derailed when the Klingon at tactical suddenly shouted out. “Two K’Vort-class ships have decloaked in close proximity,” he announced. “They are arming weapons!”

“Shields!” Gadroon yelled, a moment too late. The ship rocked under furious disruptor fire and on the Bridge several of the consoles exploded, one of which was the tactical console. The tactical officer didn’t get out of the way in time and the explosion flung him across the Bridge, neck broken. Klumpf immediately stepped up to another console and, with a few quick commands, transferred the tactical systems control there. He got the shields up and started trying to reroute the disruptor systems to get them working again.

“Send out a distress signal to the Psycho,” Gadroon yelled furiously, glaring at the view of the Federation starship on the screen.

“I told you,” Klumpf replied. “They will not involve themselves in a civil war.”

 

“Sir, we are receiving a distress call from the Borscht,” Bleep reported.

“Red alert, shields up,” Cholmondely-Smythe ordered. “Helm, remove us from the battle zone, if you would be so good.”

“Aw!” Wall whined. “Sir! I wanted to do some battle manoeuvres!”

“Klumpf’s on board the Borscht,” Hill pointed out, though not very enthusiastically. “And they have asked for help.”

“He’ll have to fend for himself. If we help defend them now, we will be involving the Federation in a Civil War, and I’m very certain that would result in a fairly serious slap on the wrists for us all,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. “Besides, what would we do if Durex asks for assistance? Implement, Mr. Wall.”

“Aye, sir,” Wall grumbled.

 

Abruptly, Klumpf’s board lit up like a christmas tree. “Disruptors are back online,” he reported.

“FIRE!!!!” Gadroon screamed, but Klumpf hesitated.

“They would detect the weapons lock,” he said calmly, when Gadroon spun to face him, face blazing with anger. “It is better to act helpless. They will want to capture you alive, so they will have to lower their shields to board us. If we wait until the last possible moment, we can cause maximum damage.”

Gadroon’s expression changed to one of glee. He shot Klumpf a vaguely respectful look. “Do it,” he commanded.

Klumpf examined their board. “Vent port impulse collector array,” he ordered. “Allow lateral drift to increase by ten percent.”

The Borscht seemed to tilt, badly damaged and helpless. The two K-Vort-class vessels moved closer. When they were just a few hundred metres away, Klumpf unleashed the full power of the Borscht‘s disruptors. Unfortunately they were far below full capacity, so while one enemy ship caught the full brunt and dissolved into so much space debris, the other managed to get its shields up in time.

Further blasts impacted the Borscht and its power was knocked out. Klumpf and Gadroon could only watch as the second enemy ship swung around, its weapons ports glowing. “Today is not the best day to die,” Gadroon said.

Then another ship dropped out of warp and drove the enemy with several well-placed disruptor blasts. Once the ship had gone to warp the Borscht‘s viewscreen flickered on and Gurn appeared on the screen.

“Looks like I got here just in time,” he said, before saluting Gadroon. “KaPlah!”

Gadroon returned the salute and Klumpf moved up to join him. “You got my message,” he said.

“Obviously,” Gurn replied.

“Meet us down in the Council chambers,” Gadroon told Gurn. He looked at Klumpf. “Signal the Psycho. Invite the Starfleet ponce and his crew to join us for my installation as the Leader of the Council.”

 

With the Leadership cloak around his shoulders, Gadroon stood proudly facing those members of the Council who had remained loyal to him. Once the Council members had sworn their loyalty to him, he called Klumpf and Gurn forwards. He pulled out a d’k tagh and held it out, blade first, to Klumpf. The big Klingon took off his glove and gripped the blade, letting the blood flow down onto the floor of the Council chamber.

“In the name of the Council of Rekhtag Sauce families,” Gadroon proclaimed, “I return to you your family honour.” His words caused a stir amongst the other Council families. “I give you back what was wrongfully taken from you. You may now sit once more on the Rekhtag Sauce Council, with all the responsibilities and benefits that come with it. Let your name be spoken once more. You are Klumpf, son of Tog’a, of the House of Vogue.”

The Council chambers rang out with the cheers of the Klingons assembled there. Cholmondely-Smythe sidled over to the Counsellor. “Righty-ho. Our job here is done. Time to be off!”

“Don’t speak too soon,” she replied out of the corner of her mouth, before turning a carefully-toothless smile on Gadroon and Klumpf, who were both approaching them. “Congratulations,” she said to Klumpf warmly.

“Your sentiments are appreciated, Counsellor,” Klumpf told her, nodding his head.

Gadroon went straight to Cholmondely-Smythe, who looked unsurprisingly startled to find a tall, broad Klingon in full armour bearing down on him.

“Leader Gadroon,” he said politely. “What may one do for you?”

Gadroon glowered. “I am asking again for your help, Captain,” he said, reluctantly. “If we do not have Federation assistance, this Civil War will bring the entire Klingon Empire to its knees.”

“I’m terribly sorry, old bean,” Cholmondely-Smythe told him. “I have my orders, and they are to not interfere.”

“What about the Treaty of Alliance? Will that not spur your Federation to help us?”

“Unless there is a direct request from the High Council, my hands are tied. As I understand it, currently they are more interested in seeing how things play out.”

“Please Captain,” Klumpf interjected. “We have served together and that makes us comrades. Does not duty compel you to help?”

“This is a matter internal to the Empire,” Cholmondely-Smythe said stiffly. “I am not permitted to interfere. And frankly, Colonel, I do not appreciate emotional blackmail. Now, Mister Klumpf, I believe you are still assigned to the Psycho as Liaison Officer, so I am giving you one hour before you must be on board for departure.”

Even Counsellor Hill looked at him askance for that, and Gadroon looked positively apoplectic. Klumpf frowned.

“With respect, Captain,” he said firmly, “my place is here, with the Council in its time of need.”

“Are you planning on going absent without leave, dear boy?” Cholmondely-Smythe asked mildly.

“No sir,” Klumpf said. “Given my position, it is within your power to grant me a leave of absence. I ask that you do so.”

Cholmondely-Smythe considered. “Yes, very well Colonel. You have one hour to collect your things from the ship.” He paused. “May I say, I hope very much that we will see you again,” he added.

“Thank you, Captain,” Klumpf replied. “So do I.”

 

An hour later, Klumpf headed to the transporter room with a duffel bag full of stuff, and a yeoman dragging an armour-plated suitcase behind him. It turned out he had accumulated rather a lot of junk in the last year or so. He blamed the influence of Warrior Philip and Lieutenant-Commander Wall.

Speaking of the helmsman and navigator, they were waiting for him in the transporter room when he arrived, along with Barfoot who appeared to be carrying some sort of red-checked dead animal under one arm.

Then, with the horrifying squeal of badly played bagpipes as a backing track, Wall and Damerell began to sing.

“ghaH HaghmoH jolly QaQ, ghaH HaghmoH jolly QaQ, ghaH HaghmoH jolly QaaaaaQ, tu maq Dagh cha doH boraq,” they mangled, tunelessly.

Once the dying wail of the bagpipes had thankfully dwindled to a mere agonising groan, Klumpf gripped Wall’s forearm painfully and then, unthinking, headbutted Damerell in a traditional Klingon warrior’s farewell. The navigator dropped like a stone. Klumpf looked down, chagrined.

“I sometimes forget he is not a Klingon,” he said.

“Yeah, easy mistake to make,” Wall said, disbelievingly. “Well, so long.”

“Goodbye,” Klumpf said, stepping onto the platform. He nodded at Barfoot, who was now manning the controls, and nodded. A moment later, with a swirl of colour, he was gone.

Wall looked down at Damerell, sighing. He tapped his comm badge. “Wall to sickbay. Medical team to transporter room two. Probable concussion and skull fracture.”

 

“The Psycho is withdrawing,” Cremini reported to those gathered in the darkened room.

Lurcher, Bernadette and Feral all grinned happily, toasting themselves in an orgy of self-congratulations. They stopped as Stella stood up, adjusting her skirts.

“Don’t celebrate yet,” the Orion woman told them. “Cholmondely-Smythe and the crew of that ship are like cockroaches – ugly to look at and nearly impossible to get rid of.” She looked out of the window. “Our plans are nearly complete. We shouldn’t get complacent now. Soon, the Empire will be ours to pillage. Then…” she paused, smiling cruelly. “The Federation will be next.”